


Trading Pain

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Slytherin, The Quidditch Pitch: Slytherin Common Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-23
Updated: 2006-05-23
Packaged: 2018-10-27 08:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10805736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Vincent Crabbe is a lonely soul, a lost boy.  He has nothing... only his scars.





	Trading Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes:

Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/wizard_trauma/profile)[**wizard_trauma**](http://community.livejournal.com/wizard_trauma/) session 2 prompt: Vincent is verbally abused by his parents

**Warnings:** abusive parents, depression, blood

**Beta:** The fantabulous [](http://sapphyre-twins.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sapphyre-twins.livejournal.com/)**sapphyre_twins** Thanks hun!  
  


* * *

He silently watches the blood drip from his arm and pool on his leg. Oddly, the dark red color soothes him.

_Worthless…Stupid…FAT SLOB!!!_ His mother’s words echo in his mind.

_Bloody ugly ignoramus…embarrassment to the family…no son of mine!_ This has become his father’s mantra.

Vincent Crabbe has been home from school for all of thirty minutes and has already been driven into his closet. He laughs at the cliché, then cringes at the thought of the abuse he would have to endure if his parents ever discovered his _preference_.  
  
He had started retreating to the closet in his bedroom at the age of eight. No one ever looked for him there…not that they looked for him anywhere, but if they were to look, he figured this was the best place to hide.

The light from the oil lamp, which he keeps on a shelf made out of old shoe boxes, flickers, causing the dark blood to shine eerily. Vincent drags the razor across his skin again, deepening the cut, releasing a bit of the anguish which runs through his veins.

_Would you look at yourself? You're disgusting._

_You will never amount to anything. You'll be lucky if you'll get a job wiping down the counter at The Hogs Head._

_I should have left you on the doorstep of the Orphanage like your father suggested._

_Bloody ugly ignoramus…embarrassment to the family… no son of mine!_

Vincent's eyes gently close. He leans his head against the back wall of his closet and blows out a long breath. His arm stings, but strangely, his anger, his feeling of worthlessness diminishes somewhat.

He opens his eyes and watches the blood flow again. It's significant to him. To Vincent Crabbe, the blood flowing down his arm represents the tears he has long denied himself to shed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next few weeks are difficult to say the least. Instead of ignoring him or avoiding him, it seems that his mother goes out of her way to be near him. Belittling him makes her feel important and powerful, Vincent imagines.

He hates himself for allowing her constant barrage of insults to get under his skin. Each night he retreats to his closet and cuts again; a desperate effort to release the pain. It's not a true release, he knows this. He's trading one pain for another, but it helps him and it's all he has.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vincent has never been happier to see the scarlet steam engine as he is today. The worst that Hogwarts has to offer is homework and Mudbloods, Snape's judgmental glares and an occasional threat from Filch. A piece of cake compared to his home life. He'd certainly choose to listen to Draco's constant whinging about Harry Potter over his mother telling him she wished he'd never been born.

Releasing a sigh mixed with frustration and relief, Vincent climbs onto the Hogwarts Express and pushes his way through the crowd to the compartment where his mates are lounging.

Somewhere around the half-way point of their journey, Gregory Goyle comments on how quiet Vincent has been.

"Alright, mate?" Gregory asks, nudging Vincent in the arm with his elbow. Vincent winces in pain and lies, saying his stomach is upset from eating his leftover Christmas sweets that morning.

Truth be told, Vincent did not receive any sweets. The gifts he did receive came along with the usual dose of belittlement. He was gifted with a personal deodorizing potion from his father, who told him that the neighbors were complaining about his stench. His mother actually bought him several new articles of clothing, including a heavy wool cloak. He was shocked at her generosity and for a moment he actually felt happy. This feeling was quickly squashed by her commenting on how embarrassed she was to have to purchase such _enormous_ clothes for her fifteen year old son.

For the remainder of their ride to Hogwarts Castle, Gregory keeps a close eye on his best mate. He is obviously concerned.

Vincent does his best to seem chipper and laughs at Draco's imitations of Potter and Weasley when they pass by their compartment. He listens intently, trying not to let his envy show, while Draco tells about his holiday in Spain. And he smiles when Pansy and Zabini show off the wonderful gifts they received over the holidays, but his smile is superficial.

It’s not as though he isn’t happy, he _is_. Going back to Hogwarts is always a welcome event. However, Vincent Crabbe is never _truly_ happy; he wonders if he ever will be. As he watches his friends, he notices that their happiness seems to stem from material things. Pansy's eyes twinkle as she admires her platinum bracelet encrusted with emeralds--very fitting for a Slytherin, Vincent thinks. Zabini beams with pride as he adjusts the time on the antique pocket watch that his grandfather gave him. It is difficult for Vincent to imagine having something so special, something that would take away his pain and make his heart smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the time away from his parents passes, Vincent's pain subsides...to a degree. He has not found the need to cut for over three months now. Unfortunately, he knows the time will come again... too soon, as Easter break is approaching. The fact that his mother insists he come home for holidays still baffles him. He supposes she needs to reconfirm her sense of importance as pushing around a House Elf can only do so much to boost one's ego.

He will cut again... he _needs_ to, it's all he has.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the last night before Easter break, Vincent sits in bed staring at his arm. His scars haunt him. A cut, while painful in itself, allows pain to be released from deep inside and thus is a welcome thing. The scars simply remind him of the pain which brought them to life and that pain is again, sealed under his skin as each wound heals. He is ashamed of his scars. He constantly fears that someone will see them. Yet, he constantly _hopes_ that someone will see them, as well.

His scars own him, for they know his deepest, darkest secrets. Only they know what loneliness lives in his heart. Vincent Crabbe _is_ a lonely soul, a lost boy. He has nothing... only his scars.

With his bare arm resting on top of the blanket, a most unusual position for him, Vincent drifts off to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A beam of daylight snakes its way in through the window and dances on Vincent's closed lids, beckoning them to open. His mind begins to focus before he can bear to open his eyes. Surely he had his curtains pulled, he thinks to himself.

A light touch on his forearm activates his instincts and he yanks his arm back. Clutching it against him, he sits bolt upright; his eyes wide open.

Embarrassment heats his face, reddening his round cheeks.

"Why haven’t you ever told me?" asks Gregory Goyle with a piercing gaze. Vincent does not like that look. He can't decide if it's pity or disgust, either way, it makes him feel extremely exposed and vulnerable.

"Go away. It's none of your business," he snaps, and immediately regrets it when Gregory's brow knits and the corners of his mouth turn down. Gregory is a good friend, he always has been. Vincent wants to trust him, to _share_ his secrets with him, but he's terrified.

Gregory captures Vincent's eyes and locks his gaze; his eyes seem to penetrate into his mate's soul.

He slowly and gently reaches for Vincent's arm once more.

Surprising himself, Vincent allows his friend to take hold of his arm, to look at it, to _touch_ it.

Gregory's large fingers glide so softly over his scars, just barely touching them. He cups Vincent's hand between his own, lifting it to nuzzle against his cheek.

Vincent's first reaction is to pull back; he has never been touched in an affectionate way like this... never. It feels odd, yet so welcome.

Gregory holds Vincent's hand to his cheek for several, silent minutes. Vincent simply stares at his friend. He has often imagined what it would be like if they had a _closer_ relationship, but surely Gregory would never think of him in _that_ way.

Looking into Vincent's eyes again, Gregory ever-so-tenderly presses his lips against the large scar on the side of Vincent's wrist. "Why?" he whispers softly.

"It's all I have," Vincent responds in a tiny voice, full of shame.

Gregory sighs deeply, then backs away for their dorm mates are waking.

Vincent watches Gregory intently as he crosses the room to the wardrobe. At this point, the other boys are up, curtains opened. Vincent lowers his head, hiding his face from his mates, fearing that his thoughts must be quite obvious.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Clumsy good for nothing boy," Vincent's father growls at him as he trips into the front door of their home, landing face first on the tiled floor.

His mother stands in the foyer, arms folded across her chest, glaring down at him with disgust. "Would you look at _that_?" she says to her husband. "Utterly pathetic." The two of them walk down the corridor, turning into the sitting room.

Stumbling to his feet, Vincent hurries up the stairs to his room. He immediately runs into the closet and drops to the floor. After quickly lighting his lamp, he takes a pair of small scissors out of the wooden box where he keeps his _tools_. The scissors are dull and it takes more effort to cut with them; he uses them when he feels most desperate.

As he shrugs his robes off his shoulders, something falls from the pocket. He unfolds the small sheet of parchment and stares disbelievingly at the short note from Gregory. The scissors drop to the floor as Vincent reads the three small words that will change his life forever.

_You have me_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
